


The Adventures of Doctor Paris Barnaby Bloom

by viridianplaza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anaphoric Anaphase, Blogging, Boys Kissing, Christmas Party, Cutesy, Finger Sucking, Fluff and Smut, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Gentle Kissing, John Watson's Blog, M/M, Minor Violence, Neck Kissing, Oral Sex, PTSD John, Rimming, Romantic Fluff, Science Boyfriends, Science Experiments, The Science of Deduction, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-11-29 08:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11437182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viridianplaza/pseuds/viridianplaza
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and The Science of DeductionParis Bloom and Anaphoric Anaphase





	1. Urine?

**Author's Note:**

> I got tired of seeing fanfictions of Sherlock being a genius and everyone else is dumb and falls in love with him and they have sex and stuff. I wanted to make a character who Sherlock could interfere with personally and who understood him because they are similar people. A cute little relationship blooms through blog posts and regular visits.  
> I've made it so that John suffers from periodic severe PTSD and shit goes down. It's been in my brain for a really long time so I thought that I'd just write it down.  
> (I've also changed Valentine's name to Paris, because I really like the name and it rolls of the tongue a lot easier than Valentine)  
> Thank you.

Paris Barnaby Bloom. A strange name, yes and being plagued with it has been a curse since birth. Paris's parents were terribly obsessed with the names Paris and Barnaby, Paris for the mother and Barnaby for the father and what ill it took to push them together cannot be explained. Then the order had to be figured out.

"Paris Barnaby!" His mother would yell.

"Barnaby Paris!" His father would shout and it took a while before the name was chosen.

Paris Barnaby Bloom, now aetiologist had moved out of home and majored in physics, minoring in particle physics and psychology. Aetiology? How did he switch from particle physics to an investigator of diseases? Not even Paris knows, he stumbled upon a book one day and fell in love, he quit his job teaching at the university of Princeton and decided to begin work at a private medical practice, but before doing so finished a few years of medicine which were required for working in the aetiology field. Doctor Paris Barnaby Bloom and although his work mainly revolves around testing samples of patients which he has never met before, the title 'Dr' makes it worth his while to be stuck in a laboratory for hours on end studying the effects of diseases on different parts of the human body.

Paris has taken up a new project, testing the nerves of amputated limbs, he just scored a spine from an old friend of his who donated his brain as well after dying. Urine is now on his list of things he needs to posses (he has become interested in studying different urine samples and figuring out how healthy or sick the subject is without any prior knowledge of them) as no people have been willing to donate and the private practice at which he works only provides samples which are to be given back immediately after discovery of the information needed.

"Urine," Paris sighs, slumping back into his leather chair and extending his legs out in front of him, marvelling at his toes for a few moments before clearing his throat. It was found out not long ago that Paris suffers from conversion disorder, where his symptoms were not traced back to any neurological disorder but numbness and loss of touch were felt. The last time the doctor had felt anything was years ago, taking out of fact the spurs he has in the night where his senses are hyperactive and he feels as though he can touch everything in the world. Even Paris didn't believe it, he muttered a 'how strange' and left the practice to cry for a while and wonder what his tears felt like. It was almost as though he had just noticed that he couldn't feel when he was given the diagnosis. "Urine," He repeats, his voice filling the room around him and making him smile. "Now where could I start looking?"

 _The internet, exactly. The perfect place to find human urine. What a wonderful idea._ His brains mutters sarcastically and Paris scoffs, scratching at his dirty blonde waves, which he tucks behind his ear and reaches for the telephone. One of his curls flops out of the neat arrangement which he made, slicking back his thick hair, and caresses his brow bones as the doctor dials the numbers.

"Yes, hello! It's Paris. Yes, good to hear from you as well. Do you have any urine in your possessi-?" The other line cuts and a bleeping is heard. "Ah? What happened?" The pain of being hung up on is immense, especially after the fifteenth time. There's no hope, Paris Barnaby sighs heavily and falls back into his chair before hearing a large amount of cluttering coming from the doorway into his apartment building.

"Police! Open the door!"

"Oh?" Paris mumbles, cracking open his door and seeing the police in front of his neighbour's apartment. A gentleman with spiky, silver hair stands behind the group of large, husky police officers. Paris's curiosity gets the better of him and (still in his striped pyjamas) makes his way to the other side of the hallway, standing next to the shorter policeman with the silver hair. "What seems to be the problem, sir?" The doctor asks, sleep on his face along with a homely smile he's mustered up.

"We have reason to suspect that a lady has been using drugs in this room," His voice is strangely husky, his English accent runs thick and the skin under his eyes sags.

"No sleep?" The doctor chuckles, looking down with a grin to the older inspector.

"How'd you guess?" The man smirks, his voice oozing with sarcasm. "Heard anything suspicious around your neighbour?"

"Ah, well, as a matter of fact, the smells outside of her room make me dizzy and there's usually quite a lot of music late in the night."

"Thanks Mr..."

"Doctor... Dr Paris."

"Oh, sorry Doc. I haven't heard the last name Paris for a while," The man inclines his head and the taller blonde chuckles.

"It's actually my first name, Paris Barnaby Bloom," The doctor extends his open palm and the shorter detective shakes it.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade... Greg Lestrade," His eyes have widened and Paris holds back a scream at knowing that he is being touched but no feeling is pushing through to his brain. "While the guys check out Miss Olga's room, would you mind if I used your loo?" Greg clears his throat and Paris holds back a laugh.

"Not at all, I'll show you through... speaking of... _ahem._.. urine, would you happen to know anyone who could supply me with some?" Lestrade is already in the bathroom and he laughs.

"As a matter of fact I could! I never thought I'd say this, but one of my detectives is obsessed with that sort of stuff. His name's Sherlock Holmes, look him up, yeah?" The man shouts from the bathroom and a flush is heard. "His name's almost as weird as yours," The inspector grins and wipes his washed hands over his stubble before following Paris to the door.

"Thank you so much Inspector," The doctor smiles and Greg swallows thickly, his eyes darting all over Paris's features and he clears his throat.

"Anytime Doc. If you see anything suspicious call Scotland Yard and ask for Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," And Lestrade leaves, along with his 'posse' of officers who hold in their possession one lady and three grams of marijuana.

“L’estrade, a raised platform,” Paris hums and turns back into his quaint room, sitting back on his couch and throwing open his laptop. “Sherlock Holmes,” He mumbles and taps at the keys. “Ah, _The Science of Deduction_ … hm,” The doctor clicks on the link and continues reading. “ _I'm Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. I'm not going to go into detail about how I do what I do because chances are you wouldn't understand. If you've got a problem that you want me to solve, then contact me. Interesting cases only please._ Oh Lord, consulting detective? _I observe everything. From what I observe, I deduce everything. When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth_.” Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective… “ _If you want my help, write to me at 221B Baker Street, London or contact me through John's blog._ John? Who's John?” After some more digging another blog is found - _The Blog of John H. Watson._ “I'm digging too far into this, all I need are urine samples,” Paris scoffs and remembers the address. The doctor pulls on his light teal dress shirt and throws on an olive sweater while tucking his shirt into trousers. He slips on his cap toe shoes and heads out of the door. Paris lives on York Street, not far from Baker Street and automatically knows which way to travel to get to 221B, after a few minutes of walking he's there.

The doctor pulls the door knocker back and taps the iron against its holder three times, clearing his throat and stepping back to admire the polished, ink black wood. The door is swung open and an older lady with light caramel coloured hair stands smiling.

“Hello!” Paris grins.

“Hello, are you one of Sherlock’s friends?” The lady asks, her wrinkles being accentuated as she smiles wider.

“Ah, no. I've come to him for… advice?” Not wanting to disclose what he's really after.

“Come on in then Mr…”

“Dr Bloom,” Paris beams, purposefully using his last name as to not get stuck talking about how peculiar his first names are.

“Sherlock’s just up there, probably in his chair.”

“Thank you very much Madame.”

“You're very welcome doctor,” Paris strides up the stairs and enters the main room and sees a man with thick black hair flicking through a book while sitting in an olive chair made of, what seems to be, fake leather. His legs are crossed and the fingers of his left hand massage his temple while the right holds the hardback in front of his face, black curls point every which way from the top of the novel and Paris is surprised at how formal his clothes are although he's just lounging in his chair.

The doctor doesn't make a sound and looks to his immediate right, where a morbid painting of a skull faces him head on, a leather couch sits in the centre, where peculiar wallpaper adorns the walls. He studies the room, a desk around ten metres away, another (more comfortable looking) chair sits facing Sherlock’s. The floor is made of a dusty, old, grey wood, covered by a blotched, red carpet which discontinues at the entrance to – what seems to be – the kitchen.

“Others would have started shouting by now,” A deep baritone fills the living room and Paris’s attention is put back onto the elephant in the room, who's placed his book on the coffee table in front of him.

“Ah?” The doctor exclaims, not daring to move from his place in the doorway.

“You're very patient, judging from the way the cuff on your right sweater sleeve is turned up slightly and the other one isn't you've hurried here. Perhaps heard of me through someone, you haven't slept well,” Sherlock stands from his chair and strides to Paris and observes him, “You're working on a project, for one thing there are slight indentations in your fingers signalling that it's of microscopic kind, you're using scalpels and clamps, robotics? No… no, medical. You smell of a hospital and although you've tried washing it off, it just sticks. A doctor, my friend’s a doctor, you know that, you've read the blog.” The raven haired man pauses, his brilliant eyes studying further and Paris’s grey eyes looking to and from the man who's orbiting around him. “You never have time to clean and sleeping and eating has come second in you finishing this project, you've made me curious.”

“Urine,” Paris disconnectedly says, his eyes wide at the look on Sherlock’s face. _He’ll kick me out for sure._

“Kitchen, first cabinet to your left behind the coffee,” The detective spins around on his heels and strides back to his chair, picking up his book in long fingers and sits back in the comfort of the leather.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” The dirty blond haired male makes his way to the kitchen, swings open the first cupboard to his left, crouches and reaches behind the glass bottles full of ground up coffee beans. Sure enough, there sit dozens upon dozens of neon yellow lidded urine containers filled exactly halfway with bladder excretion. Paris’s face lights up like a child seeing presents under the Christmas tree and Sherlock takes note, his heterochromic orbs studying facial expressions and the way his hair follows a lovely pattern and the way his eyebrows slant and how strong his hands look and how long his fingers are and how broad his shoulders are and how wide his back is.

 _Might have been a swimmer._ Sherlock’s mind ponders while his eyes absorb the words off the page. _Long limbs, lean form, strong features. 34-35? I knew that urine would come in handy one day. Of course someone would need it._ His focus wavers from the page once more as he observes the blonde who holds one urine sample in his right hand.  
“Thank you again, Mr Holmes,” _His voice. Hmm, quite rich, slightly husky, he mustn't talk much. But how is he a doctor if he doesn't talk much? Surgeon? He'd have to talk. Curious._ Sherlock keeps his head in his book and only catches the slight falter of the doctor’s hand. _No surgeon could have such clumsy hands. What a dilemma._ The door to 221B Baker Street creaks shut and closes softly, which Holmes has never noticed can sound so peaceful. Whenever John enters, it's a slam, along with Graham... Gavin... whatever, Mrs Hudson hates the creaking door but enjoys throwing it closed and open. Only Sherlock takes care of softly closing the door. Sherlock and the doctor who's name is unknown to the consulting detective.

“Mrs Hudson!” The raven haired man shouts from the comfort of his chair.

“Yes dear?” Her voice is heard through the walls.

“Who was that?”

“All he said was Dr Bloom, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson’s voice falters and the detective is on the case, opening up his laptop and looking up ‘Dr Bloom’, after changing the filters a few times, he sees a forgotten and archived blog by the name of ‘ _Anaphoric Anaphase_ ’ written by Dr PB Bloom, Bachelor in Physics and Medicine and Doctorate in Psychology. He scrolls through the webpage until he reaches the bottom.

“Doctor Paris Barnaby Bloom,” Sherlock flies back to the first page and begins reading. In a nutshell, the blog began as a flurry of things, specimens, data collection, samples he had found, particle physics, quantum physics, it then fell into more of a routine, where Paris would write more and more about diseases and philosophies and experiments he hopes to work on in the future. The blog ended abruptly two years ago and was deleted, then archived by what seemed like a fan of the doctor’s work. An idea pops into Sherlock's glorious mind as he opens a new tab and goes onto his blog. He begins to type.

 **Title:** _Anaphoric Anaphase (PBB)_  
**Author:** _Sherlock Holmes_

And he begins to write his views on the works of Doctor Paris. He finds potential in some ideas and throws others out, he adds to data collected and philosophies and provides extra information about the effect of diseases on post-mortem subjects from all of the knowledge – all be it limited - Sherlock possesses.

The urine samples have supplied Paris with a broad understanding of the subject, who was found to have severe kidney inflammation and high levels of white blood cells and bacteria. The subject had died from this. The urine sample must have been taken after death due to spontaneous relaxation but no one had wanted to study it because the subject was already dead. This was collected at a morgue. Paris chuckles.

“The consulting detective who works part time as a registrar in a morgue. Curious.” And this curiosity takes the better of him and Paris is on his laptop and already on Sherlock’s blog, he refreshes the page and sees the title: _Anaphoric Anaphase (PBB)_  
“Oh good Lord,” His eyes open wider and the words are clicked on faster than the speed of light. _M-My blog! He’s writing about my blog! I thought that it was deleted!_  Paris's orbs light up and he beams, his mind absorbing every word on the screen, he begins to laugh. "I have an idea, let's bring _Anaphoric Anaphase_ back," With a few clicks, a new blog is created and the archived post is replaced with a working website.

 **Title:** _The Science of Deduction (SH)_  
**Author:** _Dr Paris Barnaby Bloom_

And he begins to write his views on the works of Sherlock Holmes. He studies the detective's Analysis of Tobacco Ash and comments on that, giving further insight on its medicinal uses and explaining that the quality of the cigar/cigarette cannot be determined from its ash, yet the quality of tobacco is easily identifiable with the crumble factor of the ashes. He chuckles while writing about the fact that there is no explanation of the real 'science of deduction' and signs it with _PBB_.

Sherlock Holmes reclines in his chair refreshing the archived blog post every few minutes and after the second hour his eyes light up as the archive goes blank and a single link guides him to _Anaphoric Anaphase_.

The detective clears his throat and makes himself more comfortable, he reads the title and grins. "Oh?" Illustrious eyes gather and send information to an even more remarkable mind. He reads the doctor's opinions on tobacco ash and goes on board with the theory of the crumble factor of the ash signals a higher quality of tobacco and ponders on the idea that flavoured tobacco could also impact the ash compactness and crumble. "How intriguing."


	2. The Christmas Party and The Glass Jar I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of the Christmas party

Weeks pass and conversations have been shared between Paris Barnaby Bloom and Sherlock Holmes, both of their blogs have solely been used for sharing ideas and information and data. Paris would make a document on the urine sample which he was given by the detective and Sherlock would inform him if he's right or wrong and where he needs to look into more. The process of urine collection has stayed the same since their first meeting those few weeks ago, where Paris heads off at promptly 10:40am to arrive at 10:45am, he'll knock three times and Mrs Hudson will smile and tell him were Sherlock is in the apartment. The doctor will go up the stairs and wait for permission from the detective to go into the kitchen.

"Urine," He'll say and the raven-haired male will take his attention off of what he is doing and direct him.

"Kitchen, first cupboard to your left behind the coffee."

"Thank you Mr Holmes," And he'd leave, this has become a routine and is performed three times a week, with Sherlock making sure that his urine stock stays full for his guest. As is obvious, most of their conversations happen online and neither of them has taken the initiative to talk face to face, other than the words above.

Three knocks.

"Hello Barnaby!" Mrs Hudson smiles, the door to 221B being swung open. "Sherlock's up working on a case."

"Thank you Mrs Hudson, it's lovely to see you!" The dirty blonde haired male beams, his sharp features and lovely manners making the landlord swoon.

"You're welcome, dear. I'll make you some tea."

"Oh, please don't bother yourself. I won't be stayi-"

"Oh yes you will Barnaby!" Mrs Hudson has become quite familiar at using Paris's middle name and is always prodding him to stay longer than he usually does. "Sherlock!" The landlord shouts up the stairs.

"Yes Mrs Hudson?" The detective disconnectedly shouts, his eyes stuck on the far wall.

"You wouldn't mind if Barnaby stayed for tea?" A long pause comes from the room.

"I would not mind," Sherlock mumbles, his voice barely reaching to the base of the stairs.

"See?" She turns to the doctor, who's eyes have widened and his molars are chewing at the inside of his cheek, Paris clears his throat and nods, following Mrs Hudson up the stairs. Through habit, he pauses at the door frame and searches for Sherlock's approval, who dissects him briefly with his mind before inclining his head.

"Tea please," The detective shouts into the kitchen, the tip of each finger on his right hand touching that of the tip of each finger on his left and sits under his chin as he deduces.

"Not your housekeeper dear!" But the kettle boils anyway. Paris hovers into the kitchen and stares longingly at the first cupboard on his left. "Peppermint alright Doctor?"

"Y-Yes, it's fine, thank you," Paris has never taken the time to digest his surroundings, too lost in what he wants and his own mind to really pay any attention. It's a quaint kitchen, a table sits in the middle, covered in dust and scientific equipment of all sorts, an ash tray sits in the far corner of the wooden table making the doctor chuckle.

"Sugar?" Mrs Hudson's voice brings the tall man back.

"One please."

"Here, take this one to Sherlock." Two intricately printed, white cups sit pointedly on saucers and balance in Paris's hands. The design on the side showing a tea pot spurting butterflies and pocket watches, with a crown peeking out from the inside of the tea cup as the tea sloshes about. He carries the cups to the coffee table which Sherlock had kept his book when they first met, the boiling water splashes out of his cup as the detective watches. "Be careful! It's hot Barnaby!" Mrs Hudson shouts from the kitchen.

"Mm?" The doctor looks down to his hand, where a red burn has begun to appear. "Oh, oh right." He chuckles. "I'm sorry I spilt some on the table, I'll clean it," Paris strides back to the kitchen where the landlord passes him a cloth. He wipes the boiling water from the coffee table and returns into the room.

“Nerve problems?” Sherlock pines, his form turned from the subject at hand and facing the wall above the leather couch, which is covered in pinned photos and documents.

“Conversion disorder,” Paris responds, moving a chair from the table in the kitchen and taking a seat close to the coffee table.

“Hm, trigger?”

“Unknown. Stress is a possibility,” The doctor’s rich voice fills the room and Sherlock allows for himself to bask for a moment.

“Have you tried any treatments?”

“None have worked, I have spurs in the middle of the night where my sensory nerves are back up and running. It feels as though I could touch everything in the world,” And Sherlock swallows, turning back to face the blonde doctor and sitting down in his chair for tea. Paris studies the man as he drinks, his eyes close and he is at peace. His towering cheek bones longingly stare at his eyelashes and his thick eyebrows are caressed by ebony curls which are parted to one side. His long, pale fingers feel the ceramic china and his nerves work. Bloom swallows, sipping at his tea and biting his tongue, knowing that he needs to leave before this gets any more uncomfortable (although the nerves in his mouth do respond to heat and touch, but not anywhere near enough as that of an average person).

“Interesting,” The detective mewls, his eyes fluttering shut once more as he sips at the peppermint tea. Then he looks up, catching Paris off guard, who is also closing his eyes to drink. Sherlock studies his features, long, nimble fingers, a well defined jaw, prominent cheekbones and slightly hollow cheeks, but not as hollow as the detective’s. An aura of deep set eyes from lack of sleep and thick eyebrows along with long lashes. A peculiar shade of hair, similar to John’s, but with white hair poking out from beneath the arrangement of golden curls. _Stress_. Long legs, a lean build, not too muscular and not as lanky as Sherlock.

“I should be going now, I'm sorry that I've stayed for so long Mr Holmes.” Paris begins to stand up.

“It has only been ten minutes Dr Bloom,” The detective says, the rim of his tea cup sitting on his full bottom lip, his green, blue, golden eyes absorbing every inch of the doctor’s face, who smiles, lovely teeth, a gorgeous beam.

“Have you thought about how scented tobacco ash could have a higher crumbling rate than regular tobacco?” Paris sits back down, crossing his legs.

“I've been meaning to test that theory, your hypothesis makes sense. The chemicals in artificial flavouring could lower the quality of tobacco.”

“I propose that both cigarettes, cigars and pipes are tested. Maybe the instrument used can impact the ash.”

“Good idea Doctor.” The men continue their conversation for another hour, drawing up plans and figuring out how they would go about them.

\---

Paris decides to leave after another hour of talking and ends up crisscrossing on his path back home, filled with delight and delicious tea. This does not occur again. The visits return back to normal, with the doctor only visiting for urine samples. Sherlock has decided to create a private chat room on his blog, where only he and Bloom can talk. They chat about all sorts of things, but both thoroughly enjoy sitting in silence and waiting for the other to finish typing. They've written countless documents on completely useless things like the names of stars and the structure of cocktails.

_Mrs Hudson, John and I are holding a Christmas party at 221B Baker Street for everyone we know. I was wondering if you would like to attend._

_SH_

_I'd be delighted to. I cannot wait to meet John. Would you like me to bring any food? How many people will be coming?_

_PB_

_It’s not necessary, Dr Bloom and six people shall be attending, including you and I._

_SH_

_I don't mind at all. Thank you for the invite Mr Holmes._

_PB_

_Not at all. Do you have the data from the urine test of subject #1089 ready?_

_SH_

_Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Here is the link to my blog post where subject #1089’s data is._

**Link attachment:** _https://www.anaphoricanaphase.com.uk/subject#1089-urine-sample/_

_PB_

The conversation continues as the men ponder over urine and Christmas Eve (and the party) is only a week away. _Presents_. Paris sighs and pulls on his winter coat and boots, then catches a cab to the nearest shopping centre, where he finds a brand new stethoscope and a bottle of sherry for Dr Watson, a tea set for Mrs Hudson, a pair of socks for one of the other visitors and a bottle of perfume for the other visitor. _Now for Mr Holmes’s gift._ This one has already been planned and comes in two parts, first a bottle of _Tobacco Vanille_ cologne and the second he'll keep until the last minute. He hails a taxi and is taken back to his two room apartment on York Street where he almost immediately falls into a deep sleep.

He has another episode, his fingers tingle and he can feel every stitch in his pyjamas and duvet. He feels the radiation of the heater at the foot of his bed. His body curls into a ball and he cries himself to sleep.

“You're fine Paris, you are fine.”

\---

It's the day of the Christmas party and Paris needs to get ready, he has his presents all wrapped up and he took his time to make a chocolate pudding which he's propped onto a plate and covered. From his cupboard he pulls out a dashing, black, turtleneck sweater, a pair of dark trousers and dashing shoes. He puts some gel in his hair and brushes it back with his fingers topping it all off with reindeer antlers and a smile. With that he's off to 221B Baker St, the sign on the entrance says to just come on up the stairs and that is exactly what he does, repeating in his head that he'll be alright and that it's just new people. He makes his way through the door with two Christmas bags hooked on each forearm and a chocolate pudding in his hands (which Mrs Hudson takes and places on the coffee table).

“Hello everyone,” He smiles and the crowd turns to see who's come to join the party.

“John, Molly, Graha-”

“Greg.”

“This is my acquaintance Paris,” Sherlock leaves it at that and the three walk over to the taller man. One lady wears a figure hugging black dress with diamonds lining the top, a short man wears a baggy Christmas sweater with a warm design and the final man Paris has met before.

“Detective,” The doctor smiles and Lestrade returns the beam. “Ah, here you are,” He pulls the gift out from the bag in his left hand and hands him the wrapped socks.

“Oh thank you, Doc. I feel terrible for not getting you anything,” Greg chuckles uncomfortably and scratches the back of his neck.

“Not at all Detective, you must be Molly,” Paris looks down and smiles at the petite lady and she swoons, her face going red, which Sherlock notices from across the room.

“T-That's me,” She giggles.

“I'm Paris, here you go,” He pulls the wrapped perfume out of the bag which also held Greg’s present.

“Thank you so much Paris,” Molly giggles once more.

“Dr John Watson,” The shorter man extends his hand and Paris takes it and smiles.

“Dr Paris Bloom, it's lovely to meet you,” The taller blonde beams. “Here’s your present, doctor.” Paris pulls the wrapped present out of the bag which held Molly and the inspector’s gifts, along with a bottle of sherry.

“Thank you very much. You shouldn't have,” John smiles sweetly and takes the gift.

“Mrs Hudson,” Paris smiles.

“Yes Barnaby?” The landlord grins, not standing from her chair beside Sherlock.

“I didn't forget about you,” The doctor places the empty bag on the floor and pulls a large gift out from it.

“Ah! Paris Barnaby Bloom! You shouldn't have!” She scolds and unwraps the present, sighing in delight at the gorgeous tea set. “Thank you so much, dear!”

“Any time Mrs Hudson... M-Mr Holmes,” Paris clears his throat and smiles as Sherlock stands from his chair and makes his way to the taller man. “Merry Christmas,” The doctor pulls out the first present, the bottle of cologne and chuckles as the detective’s expression drops (slightly, but just enough for Paris to notice) and lifts back up when he sees the blonde’s hand reaching back into the bag and pulling out a large, glass container filled with alcohol. The whole group watches closer as the contents of the glass container are revealed.

A preserved hand floats in the liquid, Mrs Hudson gasps, creating a butterfly effect of gasps around the room. Sherlock stares, then grins.

“It's wonderful. It is absolutely brilliant!” He laughs, pulling the flask from the doctor’s hands and automatically disappearing into the basement.

"Ah," Before Paris has a say in anything, the detective has vanished downstairs, John and Greg start chuckling at the lost expression on Bloom's face.

"Don't mind him, Doc, that means he  _really_ liked your present," Lestrade chuckles as John and Mrs Watson usher the doctor to Sherlock's chair.

"You look so much like him... like Sherlock," Molly chirps, her face red as she takes a sip of the wine Greg had given her.

"Now that you've said it, I can see the resemblance," The detective inspector mutters, cocking his head and staring at the man across from him.

"His eyes are different, along with his hair, but their facial structure is quite similar. Bodies are completely different though," The group continues as if Paris isn't there, but he doesn't mind, all eyes are on him and that is fine.


	3. Christmas Party Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting!  
> School :')  
> This is a pretty half assed effort. sorry :')

“Jeanette!” Mrs Hudson’s voice rings from the bottom of the stairs as a young lady with a strange nose and long face almost waddles up the steps. The basement door is opened at the same time and both Sherlock and the lady enter the room.

“Oh Lord,” John whispers under his breath, the woman carries a tray of mince pies and slices of cake while the consulting detective bites the inside of his lip, seeing that Paris is sitting in his chair, but then decides to pull up a chair next to his own. The woman offers the blonde doctor some cake and he takes a fruit minced pie off the tray and thanks the stranger quietly. She – Jeanette – offers the same to Sherlock.

“No thank you, Sarah,” He responds and the lady’s face falls, John runs over to her.

"Uh, no, no, no, no, no. He’s not good with names," The doctor clears his throat, glaring at the detective, who sits back and is daring enough to wink at the taller blonde sitting next to him. Paris bites the inside of his lip, feeling quite flustered, but at the same time feeling very sorry for the fellow doctor.

"No-no-no, I can get this," Sherlock stands, his fingers taking their place right under his chin as the woman stares at him grimly, leaving the tray on the coffee table, "No, Sarah was the doctor; and then there was the one with the spots; and then the one with the nose; and then ... who was after the boring teacher?"

"Nobody," The woman's face falls further, but stays stern.

"M-Mr Holm-" Paris begins, trying to break things up.

"Jeanette!" The consulting detective grins falsely, sitting back down, "Ah, process of elimination." The woman turns with a harrumph and hurries out of the apartment, followed by John.

"Play us something Sherlock, dear," Mrs Hudson says after a while, the room quiet and all eyes on the detective who nods, smiling softly, walking to the side and pulling an old violin from its case, finely tuned and ready to play. Anyone who was standing takes a seat on the couch next to the landlord and Paris turns slightly on Sherlock's chair, making eye contact with the violinist and keeping it until his grey orbs flicker to the piano sitting in the corner. _Paganini Caprice, 24. Mr Holmes is looking to impress._ Paris clears his throat, eyes shut as his fingers move quickly, then slow down with the song, impossibly speedy fingers pluck at the strings in time with the original and the doctor's eyes open wider. _He can really play._ The long high note stretches out after the crescendo and ends with a sigh everyone is prepared to applaud before Paris holds up one finger to keep them from clapping and Sherlock smiles softly at the blonde as his bow begins descending back onto the strings into a flourish of harsh notes and ending abruptly. The makeshift crowd goes wild, John had entered mid song and is applauding as well.

"Wonderful! Wonderful! Encore!" A flurry of praise, which dies down as Paris opens his mouth.

"That piano over there... wouldn't happen to work, would it?" He smiles, silver eyes searching for approval.

"Y-Yes! It does!" John grins, happy that the doctor is wanting to participate, Paris beams and hovers over to the bench, pulling it out and taking a seat, ushering with his head for Sherlock to stay standing.

"You'll know it," The blonde reassures, taking his time to work the pedals and bring the piano back to life, tuning it slightly before beginning to play, mournful and melancholy notes, holding them down.

 _Chopin._ The detective automatically picks up on the melody, tucking the chin rest to his neck and preparing his bow for the interlude of violin, just as the final note of Paris's entrance fades, the crowd clears their throats and the pair make eye contact - brilliant blues and greens colliding with warm shades of silver - before the violin takes over, the piano following behind. The notes are long and depressing, Mrs Hudson's eyes watering by the slight crescendo while Paris begins flickering his fingers over the high notes, pressing them harder to keep up with the strength of Sherlock's violin, before fading back once more for the violin solo and returning to keep the violin in place, high notes from the piano blessing the ears of everyone in the room as the violin's crescendos fill the minds of the audience. Both the piano and the violin flutter into silence, along with the rest of the room.

"That was fantastic boys!" Mrs Hudson grins through her tears.

"Th-That was amazing," John clears his throat.

"Doc, I never thought you could play that well," Greg grins, flabbergasted.

"The piano sounded so good," Molly agrees, her eyes sparkling as Paris swivels around on the bench with one of the most genuine and sweetest smiles which has ever graced Sherlock's mind, his grip faltering on the violin as he dares to stare at soft lips, reaching bright eyes. It is almost as though the moon has decided to kiss the sun and the stars have gotten brighter. The room has gone quiet and an unexplainable warmth fills the already warm apartment.

"I couldn't have done it without Mr Holmes," Paris beams, Sherlock's eyes open impossibly wide as he stares shamelessly and John grins, seeing exactly what is happening. The detective clears his throat, inclining his head to the seated doctor before moving to the dinner table in the kitchen on his own, taking a seat at the closest chair and staring straight ahead, murmuring to himself.

"Sorry Barnaby, he does that when he's confused," Mrs Hudson smiles sweetly and Paris stands from the piano bench before joining the others at their circle of couch and wooden chairs around the quaint coffee table filled with glasses and sweets. After a while of chatter, Greg requests a song.

"Doc, you remember that movie Anastasia?"

"Yes, inspector, it was one of my favourite movies as a child," Paris nods.

"That song, December? Once Upon A December?" Lestrade ponders as the doctor nods quickly, hopping onto the piano and beginning once more. The notes are quick and fluttering at the beginning, filling Sherlock's head as his mind races and finds the lyrics of the song, singing along to himself as the piano continues. Greg smiles softly and begins to drown. But slowly, so slowly, they all drown and it is so... full. The notes flicker and become slightly more forceful at the crescendo as Paris's fingers dance on the keys, his feet pressing on golden pedals while he also softly sings the lyrics in time. But that flutter. The little flutter before the end as long digits tremor over the keys and a soft smile shapes his face. The song ends and Lestrade decides that it is time to go home and make love to his wife and Molly decides that it is time to go home and cry and Mrs Hudson decides to show them out. John sits at his chair and smiles softly to himself and Sherlock clears his throat at the comfortable silence. A slight tremor hits their minds as the door slams and the landlord asks John if he would be so kind to clean up, Paris insists on himself for the job and after a while of chattering, John submits.

Sherlock looks up from the table and sees the tall blonde hovering around the kitchen, then back to the living room. Paris turns and sees the detective who quickly turns his gaze.

"Don't mind me, just looking for the urine," The doctor grins and Sherlock chuckles, low, rich like honey sending butterflies to tickle Paris's spine. "Oh! I'm still wearing these," Paris pulls off the reindeer antlers from his head and sets them onto the table, clearing his throat.

"No, no, they were... festive," The detective mumbles into his fists which he has placed in front of his lips and Paris laughs, his voice cheerful and kind.

\---

_Any new interesting cases?_

**PB**

Two in the morning and Paris is bored.

_Coincidentally, later on today John and I will be working on one._

**SH**

Two in the morning and Sherlock is bored.

_How have the tobacco experiments treated you?_

**PB**

_Marvellously, your ideas have assisted me greatly._

**SH**

_Fantastic! I am very glad._

**PB**

_What are you working on so early in the morning?_

**SH**

_My sister is ill._

**PB**

_Mm?_

**SH**

_I am working on a mixture of cures, nothing has worked as of yet. I need her too much to let her go._

**PB**

_What for?_

**SH**

_I had centred all of my research on her. Sleep is too dangerous for her now. Let her sleep and die peacefully or keep her going for another day?_

**PB**

Sherlock does not reply for a while and Paris automatically regrets opening up.

_I'm no robot._

**SH**

_John thinks so, Mrs Hudson thinks so. My clients think so._

**SH**

_I am not an emotionless husk._

**SH**

_Let her sleep._

**SH**

_You need sleep._

.. . -. .--- --- -.-- -.-- --- ..- .-. -.-. --- -- .--. .- -. -.-- .- -. -.. -.-- --- ..- -- .- -.- . -- . ..-. . . .-.. -. ..- -- -... .--. .- .-. .. ... .-.-.-

**SH**

Before Paris can reply, Sherlock logs out, leaving behind him a string of what looks like Morse Code. The doctor does not allow himself to decode the message and decides that sleep would be the best option as he slowly falls back in his chair and into a light sleep, filled with tremors and cold sweats.

\---

  
Let me gaze a while into those perfect eyes. Let me look at you.

 


End file.
